Interrogation room

There,

In Srinagar,

In bylane behind a bylane,

Surrounded by empty darkness

And plastered in sound-muffling mud

Is an old workshop,

that was once a home

Where they break

little boys and old men

to make them sing

Miraculous little white lies

before sending them off

To be sold in small bottles

in the weekly bazar

Next to silken wounds

woven in absurdities

Our tangled, unkempt memories,

Lie strewn around the floor

like discarded histories of former lovers

and a single, solitary question

scribbled by broken fingernails

across ugly walls,

barely visible under hurriedly

whitewashed walls,

Am I dead yet?

Comments

For posterity

--- The following is for public record for posterity and history Let them know you were here etch your names on these walls Die in the name of revolution, Industrial, or Agricultural, Political or, Sexual, Just find a cause Don't decline this invitation to your private doom, It is a limited-time offer, For all sales must end What utter madness is this? Why are you running away from this? On what list is your name on? Who did you meet? What did you talk about? Was it about me? Am I sounding too paranoid? A little insane Ignore the glint in my eye, I take no pleasure in this All I say is accept this love After all, whose love isn't a little tainted? Whose name, a little tarnished? Spill out your silences now, I have shown enough love Others here are much worse, Brotherhood and fealty mean nothing here I am here as your fri...

Zulaikha’s Lament

Blotted and Stained Like blood on apples, My reputation remains in tatters After these years But what was a woman to do? -- He had the face of An angel His shoulders, A sculptors dream His eyes, spoke a million languages his lips, like daggers driven apart -- I grew outside of Cairo Unloving father and sad mother Sold me for a goat and A bag of gold To the first merchant who They came across -- My Husband, Kind, Generous man Made me his wife And put me along with Thirteen others -- My Husband, Kind Generous man Kept me happy Visited me twice a month Blessing me with His drunken kisses and Impotent rage -- I was never sad What more could A woman want? Lots of wealth and An impotent husband Sex was a chore The price of being so glad -- Then he came Chained and covered with dust Another man from the Slave traders den He stood at the gate Neither sad nor in jest Even at a distance...

The Empty Apartment

I draw a deep breath, An empty chair sits in the corner Hastily scribbled notes scattered Around the desk, abandoned Like lilacs in battle filed Wandering eyes rest among the Clumped clothes, a black sequined Scarf pokes pathetically from Among the ruins of our lives, Staring at me, accusing me A half-eaten apple still Sits on the top the fridge, next To the owl totems from the time We visited the dead shaman, You used believe in -- The movers are here, Walking up the narrow stairs Stomping feet leaving shoe marks, You so hate, across the Floor, Our floor The empty boxes laid in front of me Forcing decisions I never wanted To make, what to keep and what To ditch, how much luggage to leave For the insidious new occupants -- Tz

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